


where the ragged people go

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Character Study, Gen, I am surprised I didn't mention becks at all in an angsty fic about gary, Manchester United, because why gary why ;-;, more of me being emotional about gary neville @ valencia, warning::::::::: not exactly a carraville fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:59:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5809165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little-known fact about Gary Neville: he does fall, and often, but that’s not the point. That has never been the point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where the ragged people go

**Author's Note:**

> Wowwwww super self-indulgent!! But I needed to write this after today's game  
> Not really a relationship fic thing but just about Gary, about his character, about his ridiculous need to do everything and be good at everything and how (why?) that has led him to Valencia and this mess; but also about, as always, his love for United because that's all he is, really, his love for things (and i love him for that)  
> [Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3LFML_pxlY)  
> 

You don’t just hear a full time whistle. That part of your education has been made clear for you, at least. You hear the harsh chords of disapproval and disappointment, of boos that ring around the stadium, of the players’ thoughts as they stream off the field battered. You know what the pundits will say – how can you not? – and you are afraid, because you’re wondering what you would be saying if you were up there with them.

Post-match is always a nightmare. You remember the days you used to do post-match interview training, how you’d stumble over the words and make Scholesy laugh by pulling funny faces. No funny faces here, only stone and silence and a microphone dangling in front of your mouth, reminding you of biting off more than you could chew. You’re not listening while you talk, slipping into matchday commentator mode, making salient points as you detach yourself like rockets decoupling. There is space ahead of you, and you must fly.

(A little fact you are painfully aware of: if you stop flying, you fall.)

(Another little fact you are painfully aware of: not if. Not if.)

 

The dressing room is always the same. The same faces, the same exasperation and frustration and tiredness, as if these things hang in the air and even Phil with his cheery optimism can’t chase them out. Sometimes he translates for you, halting and determined, spelling it out slowly so that he knows he’s got the right message across.

(One thing you have always admired about him: when you were eight and he was six and a kid pushed him over because his brother was Gary Neville, the boy who wouldn’t shut up about United, and he picked himself up and smiled.)

The thing is you don’t know what it’s supposed to be like. The thing is you’ve been in dressing rooms, United England Salford, but always as something different, and you’re only starting to realise how so. There is the easy way out, to lay the blame on your not being able to speak the language and not being able to get your ideas across, but there’s always something in the back of your head, dark and malignant. It says: what if it’s not the language. It says: what if it’s your ideas.

 

Ed tells you almost every week that that comfortable chair and that familiar pen are waiting for you. Jamie says the same, although he never really _says_ it, but you’ve known him long enough to understand what _you’re shite at this managing lark innit_ means. You even catch Phil sometimes looking at you from the edge of his vision, telling you that it’s okay. It’s okay, sometimes, to give up. To stop trying. To not-be Gary Neville, even just for a while.

(The track and field event you would run in the Olympics: sixty yards towards the Kop, eyes burning, heart on your sleeve.)

The thing is it won’t be the same, no matter how much you convince yourself that it will be. Credibility is the most important thing in a pundit’s arsenal, and what have you got, you, the silly English boy who went away to a country he didn’t know and play a game he didn’t understand? You haven’t even been on twitter in – god, you can’t even remember your password. You don’t go because you know what the comments will be, and your name no longer trends during games because people are appreciating your analytical skills, does it.

And: what’s a pundit worth when he spends all his time criticising players and clubs and managers after spending six months being hopelessly outclassed, outwitted, outmatched in every department he’s picking on.  
And: who’s going to take a pundit seriously when the newspapers are pulling up stats at the same time he’s pulling up stats, only theirs run like this – no wins in first seven games, twice as many goals conceded, last-minute equalisers borne of sheer luck.

(An irony: he’s never liked looking back.)

 

The stadium is dark when the phone pings, everyone gone home and the silence bearing down like the quiet of a railway station. (Once upon a time you used to sit in the K stand while your dad was off with his mates, and the seats had been a different colour.) You rub the cold glass with your thumb and check the name. (Once upon a time it used to be _Carragher: Work_.) He sends the same thing after every game. Should’ve lost it, Neville, if you hadn’t had Fergie doing your work for you. He also sends, call me?

You pick up the phone and close your eyes. The seats aren’t half as comfortable, but you pick up the pen you’d been using to write notes about games that don’t matter. His voice is so familiar and you cling on to it, drowning. He tells you exactly why Liverpool beat Norwich, why Mertesacker should have been sent off, why Charlie Austin was allowed a free header. You can see the arrows in your head. When he’s done he pauses a little then says, right, how much did I get wrong?

Almost all of it, you say, and he laughs.

 

(Your favourite smile of his: when he’s talking about the Merseyside derby and you have your mouth clamped beneath your hands, trying not to interrupt, but he’s caught your eye and his MNF banter meter climbs to red alert, and the grin spreads slowly across his face as he psyches himself up for the inevitable burn.)

 

The thing is Sky offered you a new contract, the Telegraph offered you a new contract, and you’re sitting here in a stadium too big for you, in a country too strange for you, wondering why and knowing the answer. The thing is it was the only decision Gary Neville would have made. Skinny ties and slow smiles get comfortable, edges get worn down. You have convinced yourself that the deep end is the only way you stay sharp.

 

He says, it’ll be okay.

 

You want to say, it won’t.  
You say, yeah.

 

(Jack: the name of the bloke who would reorder the clips and pull up all the stats into little tables that you could then enthuse over, and who you once made redo the colour scheme five times until you got shouted at by the director because you were being nitpicky again.)

 

By the time you drive home the kids are asleep and Emma has left you a packet of instant noodles on the counter. You wait for the water to boil, purposely watching the pot despite all of the old wives’ tales, because that’s what you do, find things to occupy your time, and something that will take forever is as good as any. It takes ten minutes, not forever, and you empty the packet into the bubbles, forcing your brain to race on to next week.

You already have all of your opponent’s strengths and weaknesses laid out, and you stuff the noodles into your mouth while your free hand scribbles down notes on a piece of paper for training Tuesday. Work on set pieces. Work on crossing. Work on keeping possession and not being sloppy. As a player you waited to be told, someone would come over and show you where to place your feet, and you always had the referee to blame as a fall-back. Never had to think, and now you can’t let yourself think.

(The weather forecast on the day you signed as a gangly, knock-kneed apprentice: cloudy with occasional showers.)

The clock ticks ever closer to midnight, like somehow it’s laughing at you, _tick tock tick tock one all one point._ On impulse, not even knowing whether he’s still awake, you pick up the phone and dial. This time another place in the landscape of your memory, just down the M62. You think of his panicked fingers on your chest pushing you away.

You know he has caller ID, so when he picks up the phone you don’t say anything. He draws in a breath, the intention so imperceptible someone who hasn’t known him for twenty eight years won’t have noticed, then breathes out again. Not saying anything – has never had to say anything – just breathes, and you will listen.

(Your first impression of him: too small. Your second impression of him, after he’d slid past two defenders, escaped a crunching tackle and danced past the last boy to dink the ball into the net: too good.)

God knows how long you sit there, and maybe it’s a little bit weird and a little bit creepy, but you can feel your brain slowing to a gentle purr, and your heart pounds less hard. The bile building up in your stomach goes down and a measure of colour returns to your lips. You don’t say anything when you hang up, and he doesn’t expect you to.

 

(A story: once upon a time, one boy found another boy throwing balls at the wall, rhythmic and pounding, again and again. The first boy stood there and watched the second for minutes, then hours, until the second boy stopped to look at him, slightly defensively, slightly defiantly. I’m going to make it onto the first team, he challenged, as if daring him to disagree. The first boy said, I know.)

 

You crawl into bed, careful not to wake Emma, lying on top of the covers fully clothed and staring at the ceiling. The paint in this strange house is beginning to crack. A lot of the days you can’t remember the postal code and Phil has to remember it for you. You tilt your head towards the corner of the room no one ever notices, tucked away behind a small chest of drawers. Someone forgot to close the bottom drawer, and you can see a sliver of navy blue and white, a long thin piece of fabric that reminds you of a spent force.

It says, hold on.

(A quote from the last time there was red underneath that armband: you’ve got the greatest life in the world, playing for this club. You might feel like you’re having a bad day, but when you look down and see that badge on your chest, it’s always a great day.)

It says, don’t fall.

(A little-known fact about Gary Neville: he does fall, and often, but that’s not the point. That has never been the point.)

 

Tomorrow you will wake up. Tomorrow you will inject twice the amount of determination and passion as you had today, and twice the day after that, until you’re filled to the brim with the need to kick back and be someone again. The thing is it doesn’t matter how you do. What you do. Whether it’ll be the same or not. You’ll take it on the chin, as you always have, as you always will, and soldier on.

 

 

 

(A memory: the boy who wouldn’t shut up about United, chin sticking out defiantly, eyes burning, the heart on his sleeve daring the world to have a go. Time and again the world knocked him down; so he would always crawl back to his feet. And breathe. And fly.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _In the clearing stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade_  
_And he carries the reminders of ev'ry glove that laid him down_  
_And cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame,_  
_"I am leaving, I am leaving," but the fighter still remains_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- Quote about seeing the badge on his shirt and it not being a bad day comes from his testimonial  
> \- Also who would provide a better sum-up / smooshy adorable interview about Gary than [Phil, of course](http://justpaste.it/l2ng)  
> \- Song is The Boxer which is my Ultimate Gary Neville song ([see here](http://paulscholes.co.vu/post/137875166676) for graphic rendering) but also a very Jamie Carragher song (he picked it for his last game????) and... I just love one club men who throw themselves on the line and give everything to succeed yknow  
> \- <3


End file.
